


The Morning Routine

by Glare



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Advent Calendar 2015, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, M/M, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 18:29:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5596381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glare/pseuds/Glare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Professor Whistler keeps falling asleep at his desk, much to the chagrin of his students. A morning routine develops.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Morning Routine

**Author's Note:**

> Today is the last day of the POI Advent! Congrats to everybody who participated! You are all amazing!
> 
> And now we return to my natural habitat, domestic fluff.

John’s phone rings at 8:17 am, shattering the delicate illusion that he might actually be able to sleep in on Detective Riley’s day off. He’s expecting the Machine’s mechanical tone delivering the social security number of another lost soul in need of saving. She’s begun to contact John’s personal mesh network phone when both he and Harold are out of a payphone’s range, which is a development he’s yet to tell Harold about. He frets over the Machine’s liberties enough without adding that to the pile.

But the phone ringing belongs to John Riley, not John Reese, and the voice on the other end of the line is not the Machine’s. It prompts John out of bed none the less. Yesterday’s outfit is still pooled on the floor, jeans and an NYPD tee shirt worn to a night of drinks with his coworkers, and he pulls on the slightly sweat-stale clothes in a rush. His hair is likely sticking up at odd angles but he pays it no mind beyond running his fingers through it in a half-hearted attempt to tame it. Instead, he grabs a pre-packed duffle from the closet, stuffs his wallet into his back pocket, and stumbles out the door approximately 4 minutes later.

This is not the first morning John has left the house in this fashion.

That first morning, spotting Harold’s preferred coffee cart parked along John’s regular route to the station had seemed like a sign; a blessing from some higher power affording John an excuse to see his forcibly estranged employer-come-friend. He’d purchased a cup of Sencha Green, stopped at a favored pastry shop along the way, and upon arriving in the hallway leading to Professor Whistler’s office, found himself confronted with a dozen harried college students clutching or shuffling through papers like they held the secrets of the universe.

“What’s going on here?” He’d asked one of the students, a scrawnier kid with thick glasses that was the living embodiment of the students John imagined attending Harold’s lectures.

“Professor Whistler’s office hours were supposed to start thirty minutes ago,” the kid said, sounding borderline offended, “but he hasn’t shown up yet. He usually sends an email when he has to cancel. He’s supposed to look over our essays before his class today.”

That first morning had ended with John picking the lock to Harold’s office, finding the man slumped over his desk, fast asleep. He’d woken Harold, who’d appeared quite disgruntled to discover that his habit of falling asleep in the middle of work hadn’t changed with his occupation, and left Riley’s number with a few of the students along with instructions to call if it happened again. Upon reaching his own workplace John received a text from an unknown number on the mesh network phone containing a simple _thank you_.

It seemed that there was, in fact, a higher power involved in that morning’s convenient happenings.

The same group of students is waiting when John reaches Whistler’s office this particular morning. He’s more prepared now: the duffel contains a spare set of Harold’s clothes and there’s a key on his keyring to fit the lock on the office door so he doesn’t have to pick it again. Probably against school policies, but John is an officer of the law and unlikely to get up to any mischief—not when he’s John Riley, anyways.

“Good morning, Detective Riley,” a few of them chime as he passes, including the boy with the glasses who John has learned is named Kevin. They all look about as haggard as John feels.

“Morning,” John answers before slipping into the office, closing the door behind him.

                Finch is already squinting up at him, hair ruffled and glasses askew. “Don’t you knock?” Harold grouses, but it’s mostly for show. Another part of this increasingly frequent morning routine.

 “I wouldn’t have to if you’d stop falling asleep at your desk.”

There’s something hopelessly endearing about Harold’s sheepish smile, the other man greedily rustling through the pastry bag John deposits on his desk. It twists at something in his chest and John’s breathe rushes from him from the intensity of it. Harold looks up from his donut with a questioning look. These inconvenient feelings have been plaguing John from the beginning of their partnership, but they’ve seemed to grow exponentially since Whistler became socially tied to Riley.

“I, um, brought you a change of clothes, too.” He chokes out, adding the duffle bag to chaos of Harold’s desk. “So you can freshen up before your classes.”

“Thank you, Detective.”

 If he’s being honest, John isn’t entirely sure how he came to be kissing Harold. One moment he’s watching the other man fuss over a few crumbs that have fallen onto his already rumpled clothes and the next, well….

In John’s opinion, it feels like a rational next step in their unusual relationship.

There is a moment where Harold is stiff and unresponsive and John prepares to pull away, prepares to spew apologies and beg forgiveness if necessary. But then one of Finch’s hands comes to rest gently on John’s hip, stilling any movement, and John nearly heaves a sigh of relief when the other man leans more firmly into the kiss. The angle is awkward, John leaning down with his hands braced on the arms of Finch’s chair and Harold with his neck craned as far as far as it will go, but neither seems keen to change it lest the other change their mind.

The moment end abruptly when a wolf whistle cuts through the silence, and John’s stumbles back from a beet red and sputtering Harold to see several of Whistler’s students standing in the doorway wearing matching delighted expressions. It’s a testament to how lost in the moment John had been that he hadn’t even heard the door open.

Harold clears his throat and busies himself with straightening his desk as though nothing has happened, even though he’s slightly out of breath and still quite pink. “Thank you, Detective, for breakfast. And the clothes.”

“Anytime, Professor.” John purrs and slips away. He stops in the doorway, the students parting to make room, and looks over to ask, “Dinner at my place tonight?”

“Yes. Thank you, John.”

As he walks down the hallway away from Whistler’s office, John pretends to not see money exchanging hands amongst the students and sends a silent thanks to the Machine for organizing this morning routine.

The text alert pings on the mesh network phone, _You’re Welcome_ , and John smiles.


End file.
